11.16.2011

As the opening notes of the season's first storm began, with
a crescendo of torrential rains and fierce winds predicted by the weather
service, we climbed fearlessly into our motorized sleigh and headed north to
Sebastopol, steering our coursers for Grandma Buddy's Christmas Tree
Farm.Knowing nothing more than what I had seen on Grandma's website, I
felt that this was surely the place to find a tree, since it is used for photo
shoots and has been on the covers of magazines. What better Christmas tree
credentials than that? I packed my camera. I was determined, after years
of the dreaded tree lot syndrome, that an expedition to cut down our own tree
would be a worthwhile experience, a new experience, an experience to remember. And it was.Grandma's is authentically charming with its festive red and
white barn made magical by thousands of lights, the sweet fragrance of natural
greenery, logs popping and crackling in a wood stove, and the old fashioned
train chugging around its tiny village. The trees themselves were a
miniature forest. Every one, of which there were many varieties, was alive and
growing. All we had to do was saw a foot or two up the trunk and the tree would
grow back. Off through the trees we ambled, assisted by a calico cat, with only
an ear-twitch of mist falling over us.Dividing the wood crosswise, was
an artfully designed creek bed, spanned by wooden bridges. After building our
own creek bed in our yard last summer, I was especially delighted to see this. Back and forth we wandered until, at the very outermost edge of the
farm, in the farthest possible corner, we came upon a splendid tree. Unlike all
the others whose branches brushed the ground, this tree had grown from a three foot
trunk, as if on a pedestal. High above the trunk, the tree was full and graceful
and reached a good 14 feet in all. We cut it about four feet up and carried it back
to the barn where it was bagged and tied to the roof of our car. The cord,
threaded inside through the windows, was so taught we could pluck Jingle Bells on it. By the time we pulled out of the drive, the rain had begun
falling hard.Within a few blustery miles, we found ourselves driving
through a heavily wooded and unfamiliar area. We were lost, but I quickly
determined our direction to be north, since moss grows on the north side of
trees. Michael found this more amusing than anything but soon placed us on the
right path, around Occidental.At this point - driving aimlessly in a
raging storm with a Christmas tree tied to the roof - anyone with two brain
cells to rub together would turn home. Not us. Instead, we drove straight for
the ocean, to Bodega Bay, Spud Point. We really had no choice though, because
that's where you get clam chowder. The best clam chowder in the world, bubbling
and simmering in a giant kettle, right outside on the marina. Boats bring in the
clams and into the pot they go. Truly, the best in the world. We grabbed two
steaming bowls to go and traveled on.Our next stop was Nick's Cove,
where we parked the car smack on the water's edge. With waves crashing in front
of us, we held snug and dry, slowly savoring thick rich spoonfuls of chowder.
For dessert, a chocolate-covered macaroon, sweet and moist and big as a fist.
With all our hungers satisfied, and finally ready to go home, the storm hit full
gale.We plowed homeward, working our way back along the ocean, shaking
and lurching in a squall that surely aimed to blow us out to sea. But we made it
home, safe and sound, with the tree still hanging on. 'Twas a miracle. The Spirits
had done it all in one half of a day. A perfect day! A delightful day! Give that
day a farthing! Give Grandma Buddy's and Spud Point Crab Company one too.